Do you now realize that it is way cooler to have not fuckedParis Hilton? It's like showing up at school and all the geeky kids are wearing the exact same pair of sneakers. The idea of cool is part and parcel with its scarcity. And with this bike, apparently eveyone's had a ride. I feel like such a fool. That makes me a total of 5 times uncool: once on video with the Price Is Right on blaring in the background (for some reason she can't do it on camera without the TV on, some weird Navaho Indian spirit sucking supersition thing she has), once at the Motel 8 (she was pissed at daddy that day), once together with Simon Rex, er I mean Sebastian in his bike repair shop, once with tickerbell strapped to my newly waxed chest and once on the back of a long hair Huacayas alpaca. Thankfully, those were all separate occasions.

My agent says I can still play the 13 to 18 age bracket. Irregardless of this being true, ever since I was turned down for the role of Luke Ward on the hit Fox TV series, The O.C., my confidence has be cracked like a concert go-er's head by Courtney Love's swinging mic stand (apparently, actor and former Abercrombie and Finch model Chris Carmack looks better in a water polo Speedo than I do, that over-waxed casting couch slut). However, when the call came into audition for the title role of Roman Polanski's upcoming adaptation of Oliver Twist, my pulse skipped a beat. This was my big chance to make the leap from stage to silver screen.

For the past year, I have been toiling in relative acting obscurity, honing my craft and paying my dues in esteemed theatrical productions. Being mindful of the quality of my acting accumen, I selected only roles in pieces that would advance my depth, broaden my range and further stimulate my passion for and reputation in the craft. In that vein, I choose only roles of the highest artistic merit, roles which would challenge the modern social paradigm, roles that crest the issues that matter on to the craggy shores of human consciousness. My last ouvre was as principal understudy in the UK run of Footloose the Musical. In the original big screen version, the coveted role not only propelled a young Kevin Bacon to the top of the b-list but also left my fellow Julliard alumni speechless in what I can only assume was bitter, seering envy. However, my mastering of the part of dance vanguard Ren McCormack never saw light. The lead actor failed to take neither ill nor leave throughout the entire run of the production. Not even once. This is despite my repeated efforts of collecting, dressing and parading mephitic bag ladies backstage to his dressing room guised as lustful groupies. The son-of-a-bitch proved immune to street urchin born infections, venereal or otherwise. Growing weary of life in the shadows, I soon craved the allure of the cinema screen.

Polanski, a film-maker of considerable artistic and criminal achievement, is my ticket out of actor's skidsville. In 1977 he was charged with drugging and shagging a 13 year old girl. Am I concerned about Mr. Polanski's sordid history? True, in certain lighting my dewy features and fluttering lips do ressemble a that of a nubile 13 year old Lolita. But, no- I'm not afraid of Mr. Polanski's past. I'm a professional, dammit. I would be very comfortable saying to Mr. Polanski, "Roman, I'm a 35 year old man of unsurpassed physical beauty and questionable masculinity, not the preadolescent school girl vixen you imagine before you. Now, with all due respect, sir, please remove your hand from underneath my gap kids demin mini skirt and give me back my skipping rope."

Today, I have to go the dry cleaners. I have to pick up a pair of black pants that I got some toothpaste on by accident. It's not a major stain and I don't think it will be a problem to get out. But it sure would looked stupid for me to continue wearing them with a small white smear just left of the crotch. They are black after all. I will pick up the pants today. I like my dry cleaner because he is 49 cents cheaper than the one at the grocery store. Hopefully, I will wear the pants again tomorrow. Maybe with my black button-up shirt.

The word bi-athelete is getting a new meaning, according to buzz swirling about in New York gossip circles.

As a four time world male solo synchronized swimming champion and a special olympics hammer throwing bronze medalist, I must hurl my hat in the ring and make a comment of considerable insight. I'm neither confirming nor denying any speculation that I may or may not have: while on a 37 hour coke fuel South Beach bender bedded a vacationing American football player; had a March Break Cancun threesome with a both-way-batting baseball star and a first year Vassar education student who claimed she majored in sex ed; nor fulfilled a role play sex fantasy in the condo of a New York-based athlete, who, to keep up the illusion of heterosexuality, insisted that I skirt up like a hot 14 year old Thai prostitute complete with spray-on tan, assumed broken English and 2-foot high backcombed bangs. None of these rumours I care to comment on as they are clearly outside the scope of this discussion.

But when I saw the following apple of discord thrown carelessly into the shark infested gossip sewing circle by Page Six doyene Cindy Adams, I must provide guiding thoughts.

Info around about super-athletes swinging both ways. They're not homosexual. They're just sexual. With such money and power these guys can have anything. And that's what they want - everything.

And if that includes a distended rectum and companion donut shaped inflatable seat cushion, then so be it. I make millions in endorsement deals, my ego is the size of my $5 million dollar mansion, and my trophy model / actress / pop singer girlfriend prevents me from being labeled an outright queerboner. Should I choose to engage in some ocassional man-on-man fornication with similarly strapping hardbody athletic jockstrap types, then that's what I want. And what I want, I get. Period. Or my agent gets it for me. Whatever. The point is, we superstar athletes are above you puny mortals. Let the prudes and politicians agonize over the morality and religious implications of a little backdoor queerness. We overpriced athletic scholarship types get to sample the taboo nectar of the gods and you quivering clenches are just too afraid to go there. Do you really think all those brainy Greek philosophers got it wrong? By the way, my signature line of sportwear is so in this season. And when you wear my signature line, stud, you are so much closer to my sweet rippling ass. Hot!

I went into work at 8:00 this morning with great trepidation. You see, I part-time at Ticket Master in their customer service call centre. Clearly, it's not a primary source of income, but it allows me to keep en vogue with what is hip and current with the resolutely lower class. Diversions such as sporting events, monster truck rallies and pop music concerts of fleeting, if not marginal artistic merit, are important to this large consumer set. So you ask, what was the source of my anxiety? Tickets for the Toronto leg of the Madonna "re-Invention" tour went on sale this very morning.

"Hello, did I get through? For Madonna ticketssss? YESSSSSSS!!"

"OhmygodomygodohmygodOHMYGAAWWWDD!!"

"I've been waiting for Madonna's American Life tour like for-EVER! My Girl!"

"Two ticketssss and don't you dare tell me how much they cossst!"

After 45 minutes of dizzying caller elation, girlish non-gender-specific shrieking, sobbing starfucker gratitude and overpronounced S's, I finished what remained of my soy latte (I get a double shoté, It goes right through my body, And you know I'm satisfied), calmly removed my headset, pushed back from my computer, collected by personal items and walked straight out of the building. It's not the power of good-bye, it the power of good freakin' riddance. Omygawd, I totally can't wait for the show.

While millions of single gal pals and assorted homosexuals cluster in wait for the series finale of Sex and the City, sadly, I do not. Instead of mobbing into a densely packed singles bar dress in garishly presumed New Yorker evening attire, seated with requisite cosmo martini and pregnant with anticipation, I am quietly nesting at home, comfortable in jammies, nursing a nasty cold with a hefty steinful of Kentucky bourbon.

Yes, it's Friday night and, yes, I am single. As a single guy in the city, this would be a perfect opportunity to throw myself into the orgiastic fray that is the post-Sex and the City maniacal hen party. You see, women will undoubtedly be whipped into a frothy frenzy by the dramatic release of Carrie and Big finally resolving their relationship.

There are two possible outcomes: A) Carrie and Big get together, by which single gals will demand joyous, celebratory sex with the next available partner, or B) Carrie and Big part ways forever, thus prompting single gals to demand wanton, woman empowerment, "I don't need a man" sex with the next available penis-shaped stimulator. It's a win-win for both sexes. HBO has successfully devised a zeitgeist that will unite millions of single men and women in a climactic series climax. Millions across the nation will utter post coitus, "damn, that was a fucking great episode" before rolling over to either go to sleep, shit or shower. Future generations will come to call this historical moment the Sex and the City Baby Boom with more than a few dozen newborns being named Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte. Just don't name any babies Big. After all, the show's not called Sex and the Stupid.